A Spherical Inconsistency
by Theonewhodidnotdoit
Summary: A homage to my favourite RvB character, and Halo gametype! Rated M for Violence and Swearing.


**A Spherical Inconsistency**

**Okay, this is my second Fic, and my first RvB one. It's a oneshot or maybe a twoshot or threeshot if you guys like it, and I felt inspired to write it after noticing an inconsistency in the not-exactly-canon around Grif. He had always been my favourite character for reasons that I don't quite understand, and this is a tribute to him. It is set as an AU in the final battle between the Meta and the Blood Gulch Team (S8, Ep 20). Imagine that the Capture Unit was a Sphere…**

**Disclaimer: I do not own RvB**

"Attack!"

"Get Him!"

"We're gonna fucking die!"

Rockets, grenades, shells and bullets flew through the air. The Meta crouched, throwing down a bubble shield, and they all bounced harmlessly away. They began to reload. A bad decision. Like a flash of lightning, the Meta jumped high into the air, firing shells. Simmons shot out a rocket, only for it to be deflected. The Meta stabbed his Brute Shot into the ground, and Simmons was thrown back. Tucker activated his sword, slashing at the beast, to no avail. He was simply tossed away. Grif jumped onto the juggernaut's back, grabbing the enraged man's weapon. He was shaken off, and lost his grip on the gun. Flailing randomly, he grasped the capture unit and pulled it off. Sarge fired, but found himself grabbed by the ankle and sent flying into his subordinates. They landed by the cliff, next to the overturned Warthog. Sarge got to his feet.

"Come on Wash, we need you!"

"No…" The freelancer spoke through a thick layer of despair. "I'm done. We're all dead."

"No we're not." said Grif. Both Sarge and Grif turned to the orange excuse for a soldier. He was holding the spherical capture unit, looking at it intensely. He tossed it in the air, caught it, then held it against his chest with his right hand. "I know what to do." And with that, he sprinted away. Sarge had never seen the minor-junior-private negative-first-class sprint before.

"What in sam hell is he planning…" he whispered.

Grif arrived on the scene just as the Meta was finishing off Tucker. The Sword was sticking out of his chest on both sides.

"That doesn't seem physically possible…" thought Grif. "Hey bitch!" he yelled, his voice wavering. The Meta looked up. "Try picking on someone your own size!" The Meta made a loud, rough, gurgling sound that may have been laughter. Grif was visibly shaking. He glanced at the capture unit. "You want this?" asked Grif, holding up the unit. The Meta took a step forward. "Then come and get it." Grif bent his knees slightly, moving into a stance that rung bells in Sarge's mind.

"Well, cover me in C4 and call me sports equipment…" laughed Sarge.

"What is it?" asked Wash.

Sarge chuckled. "You ever heard of Grifball, Agent Washington?" he asked.

The Meta charged forward, lunging for the capture unit, massive arms strong enough to rip steel plates apart outstretched to grab onto the only thing that mattered to him any more… And then it wasn't there. Grif ducked to the left, passing the unit to his other hand, and smashed it into the small of the Meta's back. He tumbled forwards, growling in pain. He got up and roared, a sound no human could make. He charged again, throwing punches. Grif ducked, dodged and blocked each one. He knocked a punch away, and smashed the unit square into the Meta's face. It fell back, making a noise of pure pain and fury.

It then seemed to remember the Brute Shot on it's back. Pulling the knife-rifle from its position, he quickly loaded it and sent several shells arcing through the air. Grif dived for cover behind a lump of ice. He felt more shells explode around him, and the lump of ice began to crumble. Looking up at the remains of his hiding place, he saw something that almost made him jump out of his skin. Then he smiled.

The Meta saw a long, dark shape in the ice lump, but he paid no attention. The simulation trooper would not be able to effectively use any of the ordnances Tex had hidden on the battlefield. He looked down to reach for another magazine, and when he looked up, it was too late.

Grif threw the Gravity Hammer with everything he had. It flew awkwardly, a diagonal path, looping through the air. But it hit the target. The Meta went flying, and the Brute Shot fell from his grasp.

"Somebody grab that!" yelled Grif as he sprinted from cover.

"I got it!" Doc shouted back. He picked it up. "Wow… This thing looks dangerous… I wonder how many pieces of equipment you could make for malnourished farmers if you melted it down…"

"Shut up, dummy." Said Sarge, grabbing it off him. Meanwhile, Tucker had got to his feet.

"Christ… I haven't been this sore since that bachelourette party…" He grabbed his Sword off the ground, and looked around. "Now, where is that barstard…" He noticed most of the others standing around the Warthog, then Grif sprinting towards the Meta. "Holy shit, Grif is _fighting_?" He pressed the button, and the Sword ignited. He charged into battle after Grif.

Grif swung the unit at the Meta over and over again. He soaked up blows, just taking every hit. Grif knew he wasn't strong, but it must have been having some effect…

"SWISH!" Tucker charged in, the Sword cutting a deep gash into the Meta's chest. "How do you like that, bitch? Hey Grif, how are yo-" He was cut off by Grif punching him in the face. "AH! Shit! What was that for?!"

"Sorry, force of habit. Oof!-" The Meta cannoned into both of them, knocking them down. He picked them up, one in each hand, and stared at them.

"STAB!" shouted Tucker. The Meta looked down at the seemingly irrelevant wound, then tossed Tucker aside. He stared at Grif, red flooding his vision. With his free hand, he reached for the unit. Grif jerked it away, then smashed it against the side of the Meta's EVA helmet. His head stayed down. A few shards of golden glass fell to the floor. The Meta brought his head up. One single burning red eye glared out of a crack in the visor. He brought a fist up, and punched Grif thirty feet though the air. He landed with a thump.

"Son of a bitch… " he muttered. Then he noticed he wasn't holding the unit any more. All the bravery drained out of him. "OshitoshitoshitImgonnadie!" He screamed. The Meta was bearing down on him. Fast. He noticed the unit a few meters away, and scrambled towards it. Just a few centimetres away, the Meta stepped on his wrist. Grif cried out as he felt bones crack.

The Meta reached out for the unit, only for it to skip away slightly. He growled in confusion, and reached for it again. This time, he saw a spark clink off its surface. He looked to the side. Wash was standing, looking very weak, holding his battle rifle, just a few metres away.

"Let… him… go…" he grimaced. The Meta snarled in response. He grabbed the module, attached it to his back, and turned to face Wash. His overshield charged. The gashes on his chest began to heal. Wash coughed. He saw a small drip of blood run down the inside of his visor. He shouldered the rifle and the two began to circle. The Meta charged. Wash fired and dodged, grimacing from the pain. He rolled away, but the Meta turned and kicked him. Wash fell to the floor. He looked around, but couldn't find his assailant. Suddenly, he was grabbed by the neck and hauled to his feet. The face of the Meta materialised in front of him. "Argh..." he moaned. "This… was going to happen… eventually… I just thought that… that…" A flash of orange in front of him interrupted him.

The Meta screamed in confusion and dropped Wash. The orange soldier had jumped on his back, and was somehow holding on with his legs, and one arm around his neck. He struggled, and caught a glimpse of a plasma grenade in the sim trooper's hands.

"Grif! What are you doing!?" yelled Simmons.

"Oh come on…" Grif replied. "If there's one thing I can do without dying…"

He kicked off the Capture unit, and it rolled away. He pressed the button on the grenade.

"…it's explode."

Both the Meta and Grif were enveloped in a cloud of super-hot plasma.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm gonna feel that one tomorrow…" moaned Grif.

"Shut it, Dirtbag." Ordered Sarge. Grif smiled. It was nice to know some things never changed.

Church, or Epsilon, had gone into the Memory unit, and Wash had taken his place in the Blue team. Grif couldn't really care less. He wanted Oreos.

"All right men, time to head home." Said Sarge.

"Shotgun!" yelled Simmons.

"Shotgun- Fuck!"

Yup, some things definitely never changed…

**There we have it. I wrote this because in Grifball, the ball carrier is supposed to be Grif, right? Then How is it possible that people can pull off such badass things in an extremely strenuous and violent game when they are a pudgy Hawaiian dude?**

**Therefore, Grif is a secret badass! Review please! If you like it, maybe Ill do the Tex fight as well! Or the big finale Brawl! Just please, tell me what you think!**

**Theonewhodidnotdoit leaves the scene…**


End file.
